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“Chi siete?”

An older man is making his way towards us from between the rows, his weathered face set in a suspicious frown. He looks as though finding a group of strangers beside his watermelons is the last thing he needs today.

Matteo steps forward to greet him, and they exchange a few words in rapid Italian. I catch enough to know he's explaining who we are, but when he gestures towards me, his voice softens.

“Lei è Eleonora. La moglie di Damiano.”

The man stops.

“Damiano?”

I nod, and something changes in his expression. He comes closer, studying my face for a moment before taking my hand between both of his.

Then he starts talking.

I understand most of it, although Matteo has to help me with some of the dialect. Apparently, Damiano and Matteo didn't just steal one watermelon from this poor man. They came back repeatedly, even after getting caught.

Especially after getting caught.

“Due diavoli!” the man exclaims, calling them a pair of devils as he shakes his head at Matteo, who has the decency to look slightly embarrassed.

One summer, after finding more watermelons missing, the man decided he'd had enough. He hid behind a tree and waited for the boys to show up, watching them creep through the field and carefully choose the biggest watermelon they could find.

He pauses, holding his hands apart to show us just how enormous the thing was.

Then, with a mischievous grin of his own, he tells us how he jumped out from behind the tree and shouted at them.

Matteo ran.

Damiano didn't.

Not because he was brave, apparently, but because he'd chosen a watermelon so fucking big he couldn't run with it.

The man throws his head back laughing as he remembers Damiano standing there with that enormous watermelon in his arms, refusing to put it down even with the furious owner marching towards him.

By the time he finishes, I'm laughing so hard my stomach hurts.

“That sounds exactly like him.”

The man laughs too, shaking his head as he says something about Damiano always wanting the biggest one.

Of course he did.

Then, as though telling us the story isn't enough, he walks straight into the field, chooses a watermelon and brings it back to us.

He cuts it open right there, the knife splitting through the thick green rind to reveal the bright red flesh inside. Juice runs down the blade and drips onto the ground as he cuts generous pieces for everyone.

When we're all holding a slice, he cuts into the very centre of the melon and carefully lifts out a piece of the deep red heart.

Then he holds it towards me.

“Il cuore è la parte più buona, per la più bella del gruppo.”

I look around at the others, suddenly very aware that everyone is watching.

“What did he say?” Dex asks.

“The heart of the watermelon is the best part,” I translate, feeling my cheeks grow warm. “And he's giving it to the most beautiful woman here.”